


Worries

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Love Confessions, Mission Fic, Protective Steve Rogers, Sort of indirectly though, injured reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: You're injured on a mission and you don't get why Steve is so concerned.





	Worries

“Everyone back to the quinjet,” you hear Steve’s rough voice through your earpiece.

“What’s going on?” Clint says.

“We’re outnumbered,” he answers. His voice is uneven as though he’s moving fast. “By far too much. It’s like an army in there; we underestimated their numbers. We can’t take them on like this, not with just the three of us on the ground. Even if you take out a group at a time, another will be on your back before you know it.”

“So then what?” you ask, dodging behind a wall as you hear yelling somewhere behind you. “We just retreat? Report mission failure?”

“This won’t be a failure. We’re going to get the information we need, just not tonight. We’ll request a day’s extension.” You hear the sound of his shield colliding with several bodies.

“They’ll be expecting us then, fortify security, or they’ll be gone and the data along with them.” You peek from behind the wall and see a large group of mercs headed your way. You run to the other end of the building, peering behind that edge, where you see another group approaching. You tense up and lean your head against the wall.

“We’ll figure it out. Now get back to the jet. That’s an order.”

You rapidly scan your surroundings for an escape. The quinjet’s in the opposite direction on the outskirts of the warehouse, but you’re at the far edge of the building with only open space ahead of you. Your only options are to run away into the open space like a prime target while shooting as many as you can or to blast your way through the mercs on either side who are only getting closer. In both scenarios, you’re outnumbered by far.

You place your gun back in its holster and pull out two hand grenades from your pouch. “You guys go ahead. I’ll be a little late.”

“What do you mean?” Steve says.

“I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“What’s the situation?”

You don’t answer immediately. The footfalls behind you grow louder by the second.

Steve says your name with an edge to his voice. “Respond. What’s going on?”

“I’m against a wall and I’ve got groups of hostiles approaching from either side. Hold on.” You peer behind the wall again. You wait for them to get at the right distance before you pull the pin and roll one grenade in their direction. You don’t wait for it to explode before you run to the other end of the building and toss the second one. Your ears are bombarded with a cacophony of explosions and screaming. After grabbing a gun from your holster for security, you run past the chaos without further obstacle. “On my way,” you yell into the comm.

“Where are you?” Steve asks.

“South side of the build—” You let out a loud noise when a man in black tactical gear tackles you to the ground, your gun flying from your hands. He’s on top of you, smothering you, entirely too heavy that you can’t plant a hand or foot on the ground for leverage.

“What was that?” You barely register the intense tone of Steve’s voice.

Before you know it, the man’s fist collides with your face and sends your head reeling. The pain is throbbing. He straddles you so you can neither kick him nor get a hold of the gun in your other holster. He grasps your throat in his hands and squeezes. You bare your teeth as you scratch at his hands, trying with all your might to pull him off, still a little dazed from the punch. You then scramble for his face, digging your nails in and scratching. His grip loosens for a fraction of a second as he tries to shove his face out of your grasp, and when he can’t, he picks you up by the neck and slams your head onto the ground hard.

“I’m tired of you goddamn Avengers!”

You’re still seeing stars when you manage to reach up and lock your palms around his face, pressing your thumbs into his eyes as hard as you can. He yells at the pain and reels his head back, letting go of you before you’re too far gone without oxygen. You garner enough strength to kick him between the legs, and you use the time as he doubles over in pain to cough and wheeze. Throat still burning, you pull out the gun from your other holster.

But before you can shoot, you feel something rip into you, sending you stumbling to the side. You look down at your thigh and see blood pouring out of a nasty wound—you’ve been shot. You can’t quite feel the pain yet, but you know you’ll feel the full extent of it later. You look up; the merc who shot you is in the distance, stomping over with his gun aimed at you, but you don’t need the close proximity. In no time, you raise your gun to him, shooting twice, and see him fall to the ground.

You’re just about to turn your weapon on the man in front of you when he kicks you in the gut, knocking the wind out of you. You collide with the ground once more as Steve says your name urgently.

“Get outta there. This place is rigged to blow in five minutes.”

“Copy,” you’re able to say and twist as the man hovers, delivering a harsh kick right back with your uninjured leg. You pop back up as he tries to right himself. For a moment, he seems slightly taken aback by the power behind the kick, but then he charges at you, murderous rage twisting his features.

It’s too late for him, however. In less than a second, you pull the trigger twice. The man collapses at your feet. You pick your other gun up off the ground and, with no time to catch your breath or tend to your leg, turn to run back to the quinjet, albeit with a massive limp. “Steve? Where are you, is everyone back at the jet?”

“Nat and I are here,” Clint’s voice chimes in. “Cap’s on his way to get you.”

“He doesn’t need to come g—”

You’re cut off when Steve busts out of a door at some distance ahead. His head whirls around for a second before he spots you and runs in your direction.

“Steve.” You continue wobbling in his direction, your breathing labored. “What are you doing? Get out of here, you said this place is about to blow.”

“You’re hurt.” He comes to a stop before you, eyeing your wound. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

You attempt to run, but you make it one step before you’re stopped by white hot pain. Groaning, you bend over until you nearly collapse as the agony courses through you now that the adrenaline has worn off. You think you’ll have to lean against Steve to hobble back, but instead he fits his shield onto his back and sweeps you off your feet, mindful of your injury.

“You can’t run on that thing,” he says as he runs, eyes ahead.

“What are you doing here?”

“Heard you were in trouble.”

“Got out of it,” you pant.

“Yeah? Might’ve taken some time getting back with that limp.”

You want to argue, but you know he’s right. Your eyes screw shut in pain before they’re drawn to his side where you notice a sizable patch of dark red. “You were shot.”

“Don’t worry about me.” You look up at his face, his eyes outlined by his mask. They look rushed, determined.

Passing by more bodies on the ground than there were initially, you soon reach the quinjet. You’re up in the air almost immediately after Steve hurries in with you in his arms.

“Everyone good?” Clint asks from the helm.

“She’s been shot,” Steve says. “Natasha, grab me that gauze over there.” Without a word, she pulls out a square piece of gauze from a kit and makes her way over. “There, lay her on you." He places you on the bench and raises your leg, Natasha supporting your upper back from behind. You cry out.

“It’s alright,” Steve says. His hand is on the saturated gauze that covers your wound, putting pressure on it. “We have to get her medical attention. Bullet’s still in there.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say through gritted teeth.

In the background, you all hear the roaring boom of the warehouse blowing to bits.

Steve turns his gaze from the window to you. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your femoral artery.”

You breathe harshly through your nose. “You were hit too.”

“I’ll be fine,” he echoes. “Were you hit anywhere else?”

“No, just my head. Bashed against the ground, but I don’t think I have a concussion.”

“We should get that checked out too.”

“What now, Cap?” Natasha says. “This place is a goner and we haven’t retrieved the data.”

Steve takes one hand off of your thigh and digs into a nook of his uniform, pulling out a flash drive.

Clint snorts from the front. “Couldn’t have let us know sooner?”

Steve’s eyes are hard. “I was distracted.”

The remainder of the trip is mostly spent in silence.

  


* * *

  


After you’ve reached the compound and are patched up, you’re sitting on a bed in the infirmary. You hear a knock on the door. “Come in.” You’re surprised when the door opens to reveal Steve.

“Hey,” he says, folding his arms as he leans against the doorframe. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Could’ve been worse. What about you?” You look to his side where his wound was.

“I’ve had much worse.”

“Doc said the bullet missed my femoral artery by one inch. So you were right. I was lucky.”

Steve then eases off the doorframe and shakes his head. The tension is radiating off of him, his casual facade gone. “That’s a little too close for comfort.”

“It’s nothing we don’t handle on a regular basis.”

“I know. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

This gives you pause. You struggle to find words. “It’s what we do, Steve. We’re a team. We look out for each other. At least there’s some comfort in that.”

“I just wish I’d gotten to you sooner.”

“Steve, it’s fine. We’re trained for this sort of thing.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t need help. Like you said, we’re a team; we look out for each other.”

You wonder in the back of your mind why he seems to be so fixated on this incident; it’s not as though this is the first time you’ve been injured. “This’ll heal. Like yours.”

“I was injected with a serum that makes me less susceptible to injury and allows me to heal faster. There’s a slight difference here.”

“Why are you so adamant about this?” you blurt out. “I’ve been hurt before. We all have.”

He seems to consider something. Then he moves slowly to sit next to you on the bed. You’re all too aware of your proximity. He takes a deep breath before starting. “My mom…”

Immediately you know you’ve treaded into deeper territory. This is the first you’ve heard of his parents.

“My mom told me during the Great War—sorry, World War I—she used to worry over my dad so much she couldn’t sleep. Of course, she had every reason to. She kept busy, though.” You’re unsure where he’s going with this, but you’re captivated nonetheless. “She knew how he felt about it, that it was his duty to his country. She understood that. But that didn’t make her worry over him any less.” He looks down as he says this. Then he gives a soft chuckle. “You can bet every last dollar if she was out there on the field with him, she would’ve done everything in her power to protect him.”

“I’m sure he would’ve done the same for her.”

“There’s no question. I was already concerned when you had yet to leave the warehouse, but then when I saw you were hurt, I guess it reminded me how easily it can happen. It’s dangerous to forget that.”

“I know. Not everyone can be a super soldier or god or green monster or whatever.”

The two of you share a smirk at that. Then silence falls over you as you shift your gaze down, playing with your thumbs. You wait a few moments before breaking the silence. “So…were you back on the jet when you decided to come back for me?”

“I was nearly there. That’s why it took me a while to find you. That and I had to take care of all the guys running around.”

“All of them?” you ask, impressed, though you should be used to it by now. That would explain why you didn’t encounter anyone on the way back to the jet. “I thought you said it was too much for us to handle, that we were outnumbered.”

“From a logistical point of view, it was.”

“That was risky of you, wasn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised at what you can take on when you have the proper motivation.”

Your brow twists. “What do you mean?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, he seems to debate something with himself before he reaches over and takes your smaller hand in his. You nearly flinch in shock at the intimate act. “My mom knew my dad was a capable man. But she worried over him…because she loved him.”

Your eyes are locked on him, unable to process his words, but he’s not looking at you. Then he lifts your hand to his lips and places a tender kiss on your knuckles. He puts your hand down and you’re silently willing him to look up at you, but he’s looking down at your hands as he slides his fingers out from underneath yours. The whole exchange makes your heart pound. You almost want to cry.

He’s standing up before you know it, so you catch his hand. He turns his head, meeting your eyes for the first time since you asked if he was already on the jet. He looks anxious, almost fearful. You want to shout for all the deep-seated joy you feel, but your first aim is to rid him of that uncertain expression with your own soft, wistful gaze.

“I’m sure you know your dad loved your mom, too.”


End file.
